Tabatha
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "I'll give you a thousand years alone," he continues desperately, his voice almost breaking under the strain of maintaining the illusion of consent. "Only… let me have you tonight." / Temptation isn't normally something Yuan struggles with, but then, Tabatha isn't exactly normal. M for dark and suggestive themes; cannot be labeled romance. I do not own Symphonia.


_Martel_.

Her name is the first word in Yuan's mind every morning, and the last one on his lips every night. It's usually whispered alongside a futile apology, or growled in frustrated desire, or simply spoken as if saying the word will bring her back—wake her up from that deathlike sleep.

It's been one million, ninety-five thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three wretched days since that sunset, stained red with Martel's precious blood, and Yuan can't remember the last time he genuinely smiled. Staring into her eyes as they lay side by side on their last night together, gazing up at the constellations glimmering lightyears away? Perhaps.

 _The lovers,_ she murmured in his mind, tracing imaginary lines with shining eyes. Her hand slid across his bare chest, and she nuzzled her face in his neck as she breathed warmly into him. _That's us, you know. The stars tell the future, as well as the past._ And together they dreamed of their life together, the path they would share until death did they part.

But the worlds without Martel at his side are desolate, barren, devoid of meaning. A day doesn't go by without Yuan closing his eyes as if in prayer, wishing with all his heart and soul that he had died in her place—but every time he opens them again, he's still alive.

And so is that blasted _vessel_.

She's perfect, he thinks wearily, sitting up in bed and leaning forward. Too perfect. But Yggdrasill commissioned the dwarf to build a replica of Martel's younger self, sixteen like all the others; her proportions are smaller, her face more girlish, her clothing less mature. Really, she is almost like her daughter— _Yuan's_ daughter. (Yet these feelings of longing and desire, memories of Martel's warmth curling around him… they're certainly not those of a father.)

Yuan tugs his hair from its ponytail, running his hands through it and wincing as his fingers snag in tangled strands. As he bows his head, touching his forehead lightly to his knees in something like despair, his throat and eyes both burn, and he wonders how long it's been since he's allowed himself to cry. It's been longer, he thinks, than he has smiled.

He throws back his head to stare blankly at the ceiling, eye twitching automatically as his neck twinges. His defenses are lower in the early hours; he can't help but remember how Martel always offered him a massage before he even knew he needed one. He can almost hear her whisper, carrying through the millenial night, that everything will be all right. Her footsteps are almost literally audible, soft and light like the break of day, washing away all this eternal darkness…

 **"Master Yuan?"** asks the vessel, and he flinches, straightening up. That's certainly Martel's voice, but it's so… _mechanical_. He supposes he ought to have expected her to find him, given that he's the one who saved her. And then his tired mind is lost in memories once more, this time from mere hours ago—turning over the same situation, over and over, behind eyes closed in exhaustion.

Through the fruitless millennia of manipulating the mana lineages in both worlds, Mithos—Yggdrasill—has become vicious and vindictive and distinctly dangerous. And when he had discovered that the vessel was incompatible, even after centuries of planning…

Yuan shivers at the memory of Yggdrasill's darkened countenance; it was only a matter of time before the storm hit. "You're not my sister," he growled, grasping the vessel's chin harshly to look her in the eye: Yuan's breath caught as she looked alarmed. It was such a real expression, so genuine, that he could easily imagine it on Martel herself. "Give me back my sister."

 **"I don't understand,"** the vessel protested, raising her arm hesitantly to try and pry Yggdrasill's fingers away from her face—but he curled his lip in disgust and instead grasped both her wrists. She did not wince in pain, as Yuan expected… but her eyes were wide in fright, if not tearful.

"I _told_ that filthy dwarf not to give you a soul!" snapped Yggdrasill suddenly, and Yuan stared at him as he shoved the vessel violently to the ground; she did not hint that she was hurt, but there seemed to be overwhelming fear in her every aspect. Such a real emotion—how could he have done such a thing to her?

She scrambled back, stuttering, **"I apologize,"** but Yggdrasill grinned at her (eyes alight with darkness) and grasped her ankle, pulling her back towards him with considerable force: Yuan shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Kratos, who merely observed the situation with those dull eyes that mean he was concealing his emotions, thinking of a plan…

But there was no time. Yggdrasill reached his hand slowly towards the gemstone he had placed on her chest to give her life, apparently prepared to rip it out… but Yuan surprised himself by interrupting—his voice hoarse with desperation, sounding to his own ears as if from a great distance—"Lord Yggdrasill, this is not her fault."

He finds himself stirred out of his thoughts by a humorless laugh, and only a moment later realizes that it came from him; how ironic that he could save a mere vessel, but not Martel. As he opens his eyes again, slowly, he halts mid-chuckle as he realizes the vessel has approached the end of his bed with a distinctly concerned look on her face—visible even in the forever dim and dusky light of his room.

"What do you want?" asks Yuan, wincing at the gruffness of his voice even as he speaks. The vessel has been through enough trauma in her first day of existence without being snapped at even by her rescuer… but she only shifts her weight from side to side, watching his face closely. Can she see his feelings in this darkness? Even if she can, will she understand them?

 **"Are you all right?"** she asks, reaching towards him slowly as if towards a frightened animal, and Yuan automatically scoots back. He has not yet touched the replica, and he does not wish to; it will only remind him of the company he has missed for thousands of years. She halts, hesitantly, and withdraws her hand, but her eyes linger on his expression.

A negative sears his throat like bile, but he swallows it and tells her, "Yes."

He does not know if she believes him; it doesn't seem to matter. **"Thank you for saving me,"** the vessel says earnestly, drawing his attention towards her once more, and he reluctantly returns his eyes to hers. **"I am in your debt."** She takes one more measured step towards him, and stops; Yuan can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed that she does not try to come closer.

"You owe me nothing," he responds wearily, letting out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You won't be staying with me much longer, anyway," he adds, lying back in bed with another, smaller sigh, and trying to close his eyes again. "I'll find someplace else for you to go tomorrow."

At his words, the vessel walks quickly around the side of his bed to stand at his side: Yuan almost turns away from her, but steels himself as she approaches, forcing himself to lie still under her all too familiar gaze. This time, it is urgent, searching, taking in his entire body language. **"Have I displeased you?"** she asks him, her voice insistent with worry.

" _Displeased_ me?" asks Yuan, with an automatic and derisive chuckle. "No."

 **"Then why,"** begins the vessel, but she stops herself. It's such a _real_ thing for her to do; what's left of Yuan's heart aches at the sound of her suppressed curiosity. **"As you command,"** she amends, but the disappointment in her voice is more than he can bear. How could she use Martel's voice to—to act so sweetly subservient—how _dare_ she— **"Master Yu…?"** she continues, frowning in apparent confusion, but Yuan cuts her off.

"I am not your master!" he bellows, sitting up, but his fury disappears as suddenly as it came when he sees that there is only sorrow in her eyes. A long silence expands to fill his world, and he swallows the stillness inside him convulsively. _This is not her fault_ , he thinks, remembering his words to Yggdrasill. An apology wells up in his mouth, but he cannot part his lips to speak it.

 **"Then what shall I call you?"** asks the vessel eventually, redirecting her diffident gaze to the floor.

"Yuan," he corrects her exhaustedly—but one of his scattered thoughts strikes its mark suddenly: he frowns. "Do _you_ have a name?" he wonders, half to himself; he hadn't thought to ask. In this way, then, he is no better than Yggdrasill himself. There's a long pause; she looks faintly troubled, as if she believes that it will do him no good to know.

 **"My maker… called me Tabatha,"** she confesses eventually, shyly, almost as if ashamed, and the word sends a ripple through his consciousness like a pebble dropped into water. _Tabatha_. Not Martel, or anything like it.

"It's a beautiful name," he tells her halfheartedly, and Tabatha offers a tentative, dimpled smile in return: Yuan wrenches his gaze away from her, remembering all too well the eternally sunny countenance of his fiancée. The resemblance is uncanny, but it is not the same. _It is not the same_. And yet, this dark and desperate desire, clenching at his gut like sudden illness…

 **"You are very tense, Yuan,"** observes Tabatha, and he starts, though the silence she breaks was not a long one. **"Are you sure I can be of no assistance?"** she continues, more worriedly, and Yuan knows now that she did not believe his earlier lie—nor, he thinks, will she willingly leave until she has assisted him. But is there truly anything in her power to do? Is there even anything he wants?

"…Massage," he croaks eventually, defeatedly, surprising himself with the subconsciously spoken request; what he wouldn't give for Martel's gentle pressure on his back. This _isn't her_ , but Tabatha bows her head silently before Yuan can withdraw the single word. If he's lucky—if the spirits have mercy on them both—Yuan will fall asleep before the semi-sick feeling festering in his gut seizes the rest of his body like a fever-dream.

He sits up again obligingly and turns his back on her: Tabatha climbs onto his bed, kneeling behind him, and sets to work.

Yuan forces his tense muscles to relax beneath her touch, trying to focus on the sensation alone, detaching it from her identity. At the rhythmic pressure of her gentle fingers, his head spins as sleep washes over him, and he sways in place, relieved—but something nameless prevents him from succumbing entirely to exhaustion. Whatever it is, it affects his body as well as his soul… and with his usual defenses all but destroyed in the twilight of wakefulness, it's all too easy for it to take control.

Is this a dream…?

" _Martel_ ," he finds himself sighing, and all his lingering lust finds its way into the name that is not hers. Hearing the tone of his own voice almost as though he stands somewhere outside his body, he feels the shift—the tip of the scale, the edge of the cliff. He's falling now, but the last thing he wants is to spread his wings and fly away.

 **"Yuan?"** asks the girl, her voice soft and sibilant and almost sensual. And _almost_ has become good enough; his hungry imagination will fill in the rest. Yuan turns around slowly, closing his eyes again, shielding them from the sight of the girl he knows is not Martel—and yet to reach out and touch her is different. He shudders as his fingertips brush her skin, his senses sharpening suddenly, and he breathes in the sweet scent of fandalia flowers. Could this be a memory…?

"Martel," he repeats, his voice gaining strength with the dubious certainty that this is nothing more than a delicious delusion. He brushes his thumb along her cheek, and she rests her palm gently atop his. Yuan's breath catches at the gesture, that nameless _something_ thrilling through him once more. He opens his eyes before he can stop himself, dropping his hand back to his side… yet he takes in only her grass-green hair, and greener irises. They're so like _hers_.

"Please," he begs her, his voice a hoarse whisper, and the girl opens her mouth—but he doesn't want to hear her ask what he needs. _She_ ought to know, after all; they've done this dance many times before. "I'll give you a thousand years alone," he continues desperately, his voice almost breaking under the strain of maintaining the illusion of consent. "Only… let me have you tonight."

There's a pause before she bows her head in something like acceptance, and Yuan's heart seems to stop as the first drop of reality falls like rain. He runs for cover before the clouds can burst—deep down he knows it's wrong, but it feels so right, or so he tells himself—he needs this, he _needs_ it, just one more night—

"Tell me you love me," he commands, before he knows what he's saying: the words wrench themselves out of him, almost like a sob. Yet he forces himself to meet her eyes, wide and innocent like those of a child—and anguish stabs into his heart; he grimaces as he realizes the extent of her purity, because even now he doesn't know if he can stop himself—if he even _wants_ to stop—

 **"I… love you,"** she responds eventually, and Yuan relaxes abruptly at the sound of those words on her lips. Is it his imagination, or is it less mechanical? Uncertain, certainly… but it seems more _real_ , more like…

"Tell me you need me," he tells her, letting out a long and shaky breath. How much longer he can hold himself off, Yuan doesn't know and doesn't wish to know. His dream, or perhaps his nightmare, threatens to swallow him whole, curling around him, enveloping him in warmth that turns to fire in his loins…

 **"I need you,"** she replies obediently, more quickly this time—understanding the urgent undercurrent in his tone. Troubled thoughts come down harder and faster; as if she senses it, the girl shyly moves forward to shelter him, drawing him out of the storm within as she awaits her next order.

"Tell me you _want_ me," says Yuan in a low voice, edged in a growl, and slides his hand to the back of her neck to draw her in further: she responds to his insistent pressure, moving forward obligingly. He deserves this, he tells himself. All of it, the sin and the satisfaction. Everything.

 **"I want you,"** she murmurs, and Yuan smiles faintly, all doubt dispelled as the dream reclaims him once and for all. Their mouths meet clumsily, thirstily; he drinks her in like poison, pushing past rose-petal lips to tasteless tongue. But even this is not enough; he fears awakening before the end. Even in this state, he is conscious enough to know that time is short.

They separate, Yuan breathing hard, and she makes no effort to close the space between them once more… but their kiss was a mere formality; there is no need to do it again. He takes her by the shoulders and moves her aside firmly, though his hands are shaking; as she sprawls beneath him, her eyes widen, clouded with some indiscernible emotion—shock or fright or pleasure.

Yuan runs his hand up her unnaturally smooth leg, watching her expression, but encounters neither encouragement nor resistance; as he tugs up her skirt, he finds that only a single layer of silken white fabric, like the wedding dress Martel never had, keeps him from her now. Desperate and dreamlike passion making him impatient, he rips it off in one fluid motion to expose the soft and vulnerable flesh beneath.

She gasps as Yuan tosses her torn garment aside; he stops, but it takes all his strength to do so. "Are you all right?" he mumbles, all the while knowing that she cannot feel pain—but even semi-conscious, he cannot bear to take that chance with someone so like _her_. The girl nods after a brief hesitation; he can tell she is watching his half-closed eyes, but he cannot meet hers.

There is a moment of silence as if in remembrance before Yuan resumes the ritual he has not performed in so many millennia; after fumbling with his buttons, he guides her legs apart to accommodate him as gently as he can, and finally sheathes himself in her to the hilt.

They fit together like a lock and key; he's starting to believe she was made for this, for _him_. But even through another thrust, Yuan grimaces, momentarily breathless: whatever lubrication she produces seems to scald him, another searing reminder of his sin. Yet he deserves this too; her acidic admonition only makes him more determined to overcome it.

But even as he works, the girl only lies there, motionless; he cannot even feel her breathing. Frustration eats away at his heart like hunger, further intensifying his movements. Is she numb to pleasure as well as pain? Drunk on sleep, on dreams, on fleeting fantasy, it's all too easy for Yuan to imagine that he is making love to Martel's corpse. (How long does he think of that before he hears himself?)

"No…"

He expects it to be her who says it first, acknowledges how wrong this is… but the moan is his, and he cannot stop now, nor does he wish to. "No," gasps Yuan once more, almost snarling, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. His motions are beginning to shudder now; he can tell it won't be long before it's over, for the first and final time. But even as the first waves wash over him—they burn—they hurt like hell— _this isn't right_ —

" _No_ —!"

Perverse ecstasy flashes through him like lightning, swift and short, as he cries out once more. The usual pulsations throb like thunder through his entire body; he lets them run their course, gritting his teeth as the fire still seems to smolder below, before finally pulling out and opening his eyes.

In the aftermath of climax, his head has cleared; he sees Tabatha again, not Martel—a stranger barely over half his physical age, with eyes more curious than satisfied. He's sure this will sting for awhile, both physically and mentally… but right now, he feels only the heat of embarrassment tempered by the chill of abhorrence.

As Yuan catches what breath he can and hurriedly refastens his pants, more ashamed than he could ever articulate even to himself, Tabatha only smooths down her skirt and sits up again. **"Did I do well?"** she wonders quietly, innocently, observing his trembling fingers. Yuan almost laughs as he realizes she is a vessel of two kinds now, but a choking sensation almost like a retch cuts him off.

"…Yes," he tells her, because it's what she needs to hear, and the glow of her smile in return is almost enough to make him release his regrets—but _almost_ is no longer good enough for him. He gestures vaguely towards the door, unable to speak, wanting nothing more than the solitude that seemed so unbearable to him mere minutes ago: Tabatha thankfully understands his silent request, and obeys.

Only after the door closes behind her does Yuan let the first tears fall.


End file.
